"Say your name." The voice was flat as steel. Dahlia blinked at the ceiling, the chandelier a bright, alien spider above her. She sat up too fast, a hard bump of pain in her skull. The satin of the wedding dress rustled. Her hand went to the lace sleeve, to the cold ring on her finger that she did not remember putting on. "You're in my bed," she said. Her voice came out small. She tried to stand and the room tilted. She hit the mattress again. A wheelchair rolled into view. Emanuel Cardoso did not look at her like a man surprised. He looked at her like a file to be opened. "Say your name," he repeated. Dahlia swallowed. Her mouth tasted like antiseptic and something sweet from the champagne at the reception she had flashes of—laughter, clinking glasses, a man's hand in hers, then nothing. "I—" She squinted. "You're my husband." Silence made him still. The muscles around his jaw tightened; his hand, resting on the wheelchair's arm, held a tablet Finn used for schedules and security feeds. He pinned Dahlia's chin with two fingers. He was careful, not rough, but there was no softness. "You will say your name," Emanuel said, slow. "My name is—" She stopped, the word dangling in a place she could not reach. She felt the pregnancy of memory and the absence inside her like a bruise. "Say your name." "Dahlia Buck," she blurted. The name left